


A Broken Adonis

by CelestialVoid



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Artist Stiles, Artist Stiles Stilinski, Dead Allison, Flashbacks, I Just Want to Share It, I Will Not Be Continuing This, I wrote these chapters about two years ago, Kate is Suprisingly Not a Psychopath, Kate's Not Evil, M/M, Minor Character Death, Model Derek, Model Derek Hale, Not Suitable/Safe For Work, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, PTSD Stiles, Sex Work, Sex Worker Derek, Stiles Stilinski Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Work In Progress, so please don't judge me by how bad they ma be, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-24
Updated: 2017-10-06
Packaged: 2018-12-19 09:18:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11894679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CelestialVoid/pseuds/CelestialVoid
Summary: Stiles needed a model – a muse – for his next art exhibit, what he didn't expect was someone as gorgeous and mysterious as Derek Hale to answer his advertisement.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a story I wrote a long time ago, I had and still have a lot of ideas for it, but I don't have it in me to finish it. I hope you enjoy however few chapters I can share with you.  
> But IF YOU DON'T WANT TO READ A W.I.P THAT WILL NOT BE FINISHED, DO NOT READ.

Stiles collected his mug of tea off of the dark marble counter, his bare feet dragging across the almond flesh of the smooth floorboards of his apartment. He followed the maze of his brightly lit beige walls as he turned into his studio area. It was meant to be a living room, but he decided when he moved in that he would make one of the guest rooms his lounge room and use the larger room as his art studio, filling the space with canvases, easels, crates full of paints and packs of pastels, a small cedar wood desk littered with papers and discarded drawings.

The far wall framed a large bay window, small ferns and potted plants that Melissa had given him when he moved in and he had miraculously kept alive. Succulents and cacti were hard to kill, thankfully, and although they didn’t talk or need much nurturing, the sight of the plump green leaves and growing rose cacti blossoms made Stiles feel proud of himself for caring for something other than himself.

The window overlooked the park, a strangely vibrant patch of green in the centre of the city; surrounded by the towering grey apartment buildings and colourful storefronts.

He set his mug of tea down on the small table beside his working space and slid up onto his stool, glancing at the photos he had clipped to the wood of his easel as references. He sharpened his pencil and began to sketch an image on the paper, the thin lead tip of his pencil scratching against the thick fibres.

He tried as hard as he could to distract himself, but nothing he did seemed to work.

He sighed and set the pencil down, racking his fingers through his unkempt hair.

He didn’t understand why he was so nervous, he was just meeting a model after all.

Stiles picked up his mobile and unlocked it. He opened up the app for his photos and flicked through the photos the man had sent him.

He was a gorgeous man; young, twenty-four at most, but the hint of a shadow lingered beneath his eyes and begged to differ. His wide-set eyes were pale beneath his dark brows, narrowed on him as the colour of his irises shifted in the light; from hazel to pale aventurine, to a shade of light blue – clear, bright and focused. His hair was dark and thick, cropped short at the base of his skull and across his strong jaw, the soft whiskers casting a shadow across his jaw and framing his sharp cheekbones. In a couple of the photos he wore a thin grew shirt, the rippling fabric complementing the curves of his muscles. The open V-neck collar dipped down over the light dusting of his dark chest hair and beige skin. In other photo’s he was shirtless, revealing his tight muscular torso.

Derek Hale.

“I advertised for a model, not a god,” Stiles muttered to himself, setting his phone down and collecting his mug. He sipped at the warm tea, inhaling the sweet scent of forest fruits. Groaning, he checked the time on his phone.

9:57.

An hour more to wait.

He exhaled heavily, set his phone back down on the table and picked up the thin black chalk pastel. He nibbled at the corner of his lip, his elegant, lean fingers moving across the paper fluidly as the detailed image began to emerge; the portrait of an exquisite young lady, her jaw firm and framed by the cascading waves of dark curls. Her radiant skin seemed to glow on the paper, glistening like her dark eyes. Her dark eyebrows swept over the elegantly curved of her eyes. The curve of her nose was accentuated by her plump lips. She was beautiful.

“Allison,” he gasped.

He stared at the drawing. It wasn’t what he had planned to draw but it was the most striking depiction of her he had drawn. But it was haunting; the very likeness of her beauty knotting his gut and tearing his heart into a million pieces.

He tore the paper from its place, scrunching it into a ball, tossing it into the small waste bin beside his desk. He glared at it as if it was the cause of all his problems. He turned away, collecting his mug and stalking into the kitchen. He poured the now cold tea down the drain and set the mug in the sink, listening to the loud clatter as he braced his hands against the edge of the bench and bowed his head. Hot tears splashed against the speckled marble, bleeding into the streaking white veins and rolling across the smooth surface.

The chime of his doorbell disturbed his thoughts.

“Who is it?” he called.

“My name is Derek Hale,” came the reply.

Stiles was gob-smacked for a second.

He hadn’t expected that voice; husky, warm but composed and confident. It was stunning – just another thing to add to his brilliance.

“Uh.” Stiles shook himself from his stupor, rubbing the ball of his palm against his tear stained cheeks. “The door is unlocked, come on in.”

Stiles heard the door open and close, the latch clicking back into place. He listened as feet shuffled about near the front door. He reached across the benchtop and flicked the kettle on.

“I’m in the kitchen. Do you want a drink?” Stiles offered. “Tea, coffee, soda, water?”

“I’m alright, thank you.”

Stiles turned around, catching sight of the man in the doorway.

He was breathtaking, even better than the photos. His broad shoulders pressed against his shirt and his sleeves that clung to his firm biceps. His skin seemed to glow, even in the dull shadows of the hallway.

Stiles blinked a few times, silently swearing at himself to be a professional.

“Please, have a seat.” Stiles gestured to the bar stools before the counter before turning back to the kettle as it bubbled, the boiling water roaring in the pot and gushing steam spewing into the air. It clicked off and the water simmered down. Stiles prepared his tea, trying to distract himself and avoid looking at the dazzling man who sat behind him.

“I don’t run a conventional shop,” Stiles stated, getting straight to business in hope that it would help settle his nerves. He finished making his cup of tea, turning around and slouching back against the counter as he continued, “More casual than anything. I mean, I haven’t even had a model since I went to art school, but I’m running out of material and I’m being pushed to finish enough pieces of work for a new exhibition in a few weeks. I’m willing to pay you full compensation for your time, travel and troubles and you have the right to say no to anything I propose. I’m not sure what the conventional payment for modelling is so just name your price.”

Derek seemed as nervous as Stiles was, sitting in silence at the other end of the kitchen.

“Another thing: I talk a lot. So shut me up whenever.”

“This is my first modelling job,” Derek confessed, voice quiet but honest and firm. “So I don’t know how much to get paid, and to be completely honest I don’t want to get paid, I just need somewhere to go and something to do when I’m not at home or at work.”

“Well, make yourself at home,” Stiles said welcomingly, a warm smile lifting his mole-specked cheeks. “You sure you don’t want a drink?”

“I’m alright, thanks.” Derek smiled in return, his eyes glittering.

Stiles was mesmerised. He set his mug down and walked around the bench. “I’ll show you the studio.”

 

The tension had begun to settle between the two as Stiles showed a couple of his drawings to Derek, watching the man admire his work, occasionally commenting on the detail or the crafty use of charcoal and chalk pastels.

“Most of the worthwhile ones are in the gallery down the road,” Stiles muttered, shuffling through piles of sketches and paintings he had tossed about the table of his studio, others pinned to the wall or stowed away in folders.

Stiles glanced up at Derek.

“If you want I could do a quick sketch of you, just to see whether you like the way I draw you,” he proposed.

Derek’s clear eyes flickered up to him. “If you want to, that’d be great.”

Stiles let free a soft breath, relieved but still rather excited as he stepped away from the pile of papers.

“Uh, how would you like me?” Derek asked.

Stiles glanced around the room. “Take a seat and sit however you’d like. Trust me, you look great from every angle.”

Derek blushed slightly, bowing his head until the soft pink flush of his cheeks began to disappear. He turned and sat down on a nearby small chair.

“Anything you want me to do?”

“Just be yourself,” Stiles said softly, smiling at the man as he picked up a pencil and his sketchbook. He glanced up to the man, his chestnut brown eyes sparkling as they rolled over the man’s face as he began to move his nimble fingers, the tip of the pencil scratching at the paper as Stiles sketched the man’s portrait. He nibbled at his lip, shading in the sculpted features of the man’s face and carefully adding in the smaller details: his fine whiskers, the twinkle in his eye and the soft curve of his full lips.

A few minutes later he was done. He set his pencil down and turned the book around, offering it over to Derek. The man took it with a soft smile, looking down at the drawing. He froze. It was eerily perfect, but not in the bad way. He stared at it, trying to subtly move his face to make sure he wasn’t staring in a mirror.

“That’s incredible,” Derek whispered. “It’s perfect.”

He offered the book back to the artist who stared at him with a glowing smile.

Stiles tore the page out of the sketch book and offered it to Derek.

Derek stared at him, shocked and confused.

“It’s my policy that the person I draw gets the first one,” Stiles explained, handing over the paper.

Derek took it gratefully.

“You have every right to turn down my offer, but if you feel up to it, you have my number and you know where to reach me.”

“I’d love to take you up on your offer,” Derek said, staring down at the drawing and then back up at the man. “You have my number too. I work evening shifts so I’m available almost any time during the day, just text me and I’ll see if I’m free.”

“Sounds great,” Stiles whispered, watching Derek’s somewhat stern features soften.

Derek struggled to take his eyes away from the drawing, his husky voice warm as he muttered, “Perfect.”


	2. Chapter 2

Stiles pressed the tip of the charcoal against the canvas, the fibres scratching as he etched the detail of Derek’s magnificent body; the curves of his spine, the firm muscles of his back, the smooth ridges of his ribs, the bulging muscles of strong biceps that tensed against his skin, the dip of his tailbone, the shadows seeping down past the hem of his pants, and the thick black swirls of a triskelion tattoo he had embedded between his shoulder blades.

“Remind me one day to draw you as a god,” Stiles mused, eyes rolling over Derek’s toned body as he glided his hand across the canvas, etching the chalk and smearing it to cast shadows across his luminescent skin. “Thor’s armour would be too bulky but the lightning would accentuate you nicely. Zeus, maybe, but his robes might cover up too much. Maybe a warrior like Mars or Apollo - - hmm - -nah, it needs to be something more artful, Romantic. Maybe Eros or Adonis– the mortal man who was dearly loved by Aphrodite – but you deserve to be an immortal, a god. I’m rambling again, aren’t I?”

Derek chuckled breathlessly.

“If you need a break, just say so,” Stiles offered. “Also, shut me up any time.”

“I’m good,” Derek said, still posed on his aching knees with his body arched backwards and arms outstretched as if he were praying to some heavenly divine figure. “And I don’t mind your ‘rambling’, it’s rather calming to hear your voice, especially when you’re talking about anything but the fact that I’m ass clad naked in your apartment.”

“Well, I’m almost done and, if I may say so, you have nothing to be ashamed of.”

Derek felt a soft blush heat his cheeks, and for a moment he was grateful that he was facing away from the artist. However something inside of him wished he was looking at Stiles, so he could watch the way his eyes sparkle when he intently focuses or something, or how he gently gnaws at his lower lip when he concentrated, or how he holds the end of his pencil or paintbrushes between his pearly white teeth, the tips bobbing as he moves his jaw back and forth. He wished he could see the fluid movements of the man’s hand as he made art out of Derek’s body.

He had been told many times that he was gorgeous but the way Stiles said it was something else; something genuine - - not based purely on sexual desire. There was something about his voice, as light and childish it was, the very sound of it put him at ease, no matter what he was talking about; Greek mythology, cooking, movies and books – with a particular interest in Batman and various other comic heroes, with a preference of DC comic and TV shows, but the acceptance of the Marvel movies. Whatever seemed to catch the young man’s interest, whatever made him speak so passionately that he would ramble on for an indistinct amount of time, it made Derek feel calm, safe.

“Okay, all done,” Stiles announced. “You can relax now.”

Derek nearly collapsed against the ground. He sat, slumping shoulders forward and slowly rolling his shoulders. He listened as Stiles shuffled about, setting his pencils and pastels back in their places and passing Derek his shirt. Derek smiled up at him and took the shirt.

“Would you like a drink or something?” Stiles offered as he stepped out of his studio and trotted into the kitchen, the pipes rattling as water gushed into the sink and he scrubbed the thick black chalk off his hands.

Derek grunted as he rose to his feet, searing pain boiling in his knees as he tried to stretch his muscles and follow after Stiles.

“Coffee?” Derek asked.

“Sure. Can do,” Stiles chirped. He shut off the taps and patted his hands dry, reaching over to flicking the electric kettle on. He stepped across the kitchen with grace and confidence, pulling open the fridge and collecting a can of soda for himself. “Want something to eat?”

“I’m alright,” Derek said softly. “Thank you.”

“Okay,” Stiles muttered, turning and reaching into the pantry to collect a packet of chips.

The kettle boiled, bubbling and gushing steam.

“How do you like your coffee?” Stiles asked, reaching into the overhead cupboard to collect a pale blue mug.

“Milk – if you have some – and one sugar, please.”

Stiles hummed, stepping over to the fridge and tugged open the door again, shivering against the cold. Derek quickly glanced at the photos and notices stuck to the fridge door; a pamphlet for the upcoming art exhibition, a couple of past exhibitions, a bright yellow Post-It Note reading ‘Call Scott before Monday’, the strangely captivating drawing of a tree – its branches spread out across the faint blue lines of the paper and signed ‘Love, Lydia’ – and finally a couple of photos: one of Stiles and another young man – golden skin and slim cheekbones supporting a goofy smile – both adorned in thick black gowns and clutching certificates of graduation, a group photo of Stiles, the young man and a third man with golden curls and bright puppy eyes, their arms wrapped around each other, another of Stiles getting a kiss planted on him by a gorgeous strawberry blonde – obviously his girlfriend – and the final photo was of Stiles and an older man, his father, maybe.

He couldn’t explain why, but his eyes were drawn back to the girl, her exquisite beauty was captivating. A wave of bronze curls fell down her back. Her lips were coloured with a bright lipstick, the colour smearing ever-so-slightly across the pale skin of Stiles’ cheek. Stiles was smiling, a goofy smirk that lifted his cheeks and squinted the corners of his eyes.

There was something about it that tugged at his gut. It wasn’t jealousy, how could it be? He felt nothing for Stiles, so why would he be jealous of a girl kissing him?

Stiles collected the carton of milk, squinting at the label. “Full cream okay?”

“Uh, yeah,” Derek replied, shaken from his thoughts.

Stiles glanced over his shoulder at Derek, noticing the man’s intense focus on the photos. He fumbled about with jars and containers. When finished, he handed Derek the mug, turning around and collecting the photos off the fridge. He shuffled through them before showing them to Derek.

“This is me and Scott,” he said, showing Derek the photo of the two of them dressed in black robes. “It was our graduation. We’ve been friends since we were babies, and now he’s bossing me around.”

Derek looked up at him, brow creased in confusion.

“He’s the gallery owner,” Stiles explained. He shuffled through the photos again and pulled out the group photo. “And that’s Isaac, Scott’s boyfriend. He helps out at the gallery some times. I can’t remember what he does for a job. They’re pretty much my brothers. Scott’s mum took Isaac in when his dad was murdered and me after my dad… died.” He swallowed hard, setting aside the photo of his father and slid the final photo – the one Derek wanted to know about – across the benchtop. “That’s Lydia.”

“Your girlfriend?” Derek asked, trying to keep his voice calm and level.

Stiles chuckled. “If you had asked me that ten years ago I would have said ‘I wish’. And no, she’s not my girlfriend. A good friend, yes. Sisterly, yes. My crush from third grade to final year, yes. But now? No. I’m… I’m gay.”

Derek’s eyes flicked up to him.

Stiles hands rose defensively. “Please don’t let that make things awkward. I mean, I get it if you want to leave, in fact I probably should have been clear about that upfront-”

“I am too,” Derek interrupted, his voice silencing the man.

“Really?”

“Bi,” Derek confirmed.

Stiles raised his brow. “Oh.” He smacked a hand over his face. “Sorry, that was the shittest way I could have possibly reacted to that. I’m sorry.” He dragged his hands down his face and sighed. He looked Derek in the eye. “Thank you, for being open and honest with me _and_ for not shunning me when I told you.”

“You were so open and honest with me.” Derek smiled softly, staring down at the beige swirls of his coffee. “Besides, I feel safe with you.”

Stiles smiled softly, his warm chestnut eyes sparkling.

“I have a proposition to make,” Stiles said, breaking the silence. “I have one last idea in my mind for this upcoming exhibition, and I’m going to need a model for it. But it’ll take too long for you to hold the poses, so I was going to do a photoshoot. You can say no, but if you want to go through with it, I can delete the photos afterwards.”

“If you need me to pose, I can. I don’t mind how long it takes,” Derek said comfortingly.

“Derek, I’d rather not because it would most likely result in hurting you and I don’t want that.” His eyes sparkled with concern as he continued, “The photoshoot will only take an hour or so, but drawing you while you pose could take hours, and then adding the additional details would take days.”

“Okay, if you say so. But I really don’t mind.”

“I’ll delete the photos once I’m done,” Stiles promised.

Derek chuckled breathlessly. “Just tell me when you need me.”

“Are you free tomorrow?” Stiles asked, glancing at the small diary he had on his desk.

“Any time before six, yes.”

“Awesome, can you come over then?”

“Sounds great.”


	3. Chapter 3

_Stiles woke to the disturbingly familiar surroundings of the hospital; the speckled grey roof tiles, the crisp white walls and starchy bedsheets, the bitter smell of disinfectant that burnt his eyes and the assortment of beeps, buzzes and hissing that monitored his vital signs._

_He sat upright, muscles burning and skin tearing at his stitches as it settled over his bone. He hissed, groaning as he rose to his feet. The linoleum was cold beneath his bare feet, smooth as he dragged his lethargic body towards the door. He stepped into the glaring light of the hallway, eyes falling on Scott._

_He sat in the chair across from the private room: hands in his lap, fingers laced together, white knuckles pressed against his tan skin, and head bowed. His face was hidden in the shadows as glistening tears fell like crystals, shattering against the smooth floor._

_Stiles felt as if he had been slammed in the chest with a baseball bat, all air knocked form his lungs._

_“Where’s Allison?” Stiles asked, voice croaking as it tore at his dry throat._

_Scott looked up, eyes red with tears._

_Stiles turned, sprinted down the hallway. He stumbled legs burning as they toppled beneath him and he fell against doorframes and gurneys, shoving off them to keep running. He looked from room to room, trying to find her._

_“Stiles, wait,” Scott called, leaping from his seat and racing after him. But he wasn’t fast enough._

_Sties pace faltered as his eyes fell on the curves of a sheet-covered body. Chris stood over the corpse, his expression firm and composed, but eyes swirling with pain as he looked up at Stiles._

_Stiles expected blame and anger, but the glittering depths only held pity, sorrow, pain and torment._

_Stiles’ eyes fell to the body as Melissa hastily lifted the pale sheet back over the face. But not fast enough to hide the waves of dark brown curls._

_His lips quivered as he gasped breathlessly, trembling around the word – a quiet plea._

_“No.”_

_He didn’t feel his knees give way beneath him. He didn’t feel his body collapse to the floor. He didn’t feel his knees hit the linoleum as he let out a heart-breaking cry. He didn’t hear the rush of thundering feet, vibrations shaking his hands as people swarmed to his side. His pained wail emptied his lungs, leaving them burning for air._

_“The coroner says her death was instant. Painless,” Scott whispered._

_Stiles looked at him. His soft brown hair was unkempt and his eyes were dragged down by tears and fatigue. He sat on the edge of Stiles’ hospital bed, head bowed as he eyes watched the glistening silver pendant of Allison’s necklace as he rolled it between his elegant fingers._

_How was he meant to tell Scott that wasn’t true? How was he meant to explain that it hadn’t been instant? How was he meant to explain that Allison had been strong, brave and composed… but she had been alive? How was he meant to tell Scott that he wasn’t sure that her death had been painless? But the soft whispers – her last words – and the sight of her blood-streaked face seemed to disagree with anything he’d been told._

_“It’s my fault,” Stiles whispered. “I’m so sorry.”_

_“No,” Scott whispered. “You did nothing wrong. Her death is not on your hands. It’s on the hands of the guy that ran the light and hit you.”_

_“If I hadn’t been driving-”_

_“She would have walked home drink or tried to drive herself home while intoxicated,” Scott interrupted. “Stiles, you did the right thing. You were sober. You drove her home and kept her safe. What happened was not your fault,” Scott said firmly._

_Tears stung at Stiles’ eyes as he lips quivered._

_“I’m sorry,” he whimpered._

_Scott turned to him, pulling his friend into his strong arms where he held him close as the boy cried, ignoring the warmth of the tears that bled through the thin cotton fibres of his shirt._

 

What the hell was he doing here? What difference would it make?

His hands trembled as he reached for the doorbell, fingers hesitating as they hovered over the button.

He dropped his hand, biting his lip and silently cursing himself as he ran his hand over his face and shook his limbs as if he were getting ready to run a marathon.

He pressed the doorbell and shoved his hand into his pockets.

The chime rang in his ears.

 _I could still walk away_ , he bargained with himself. _Maybe he’s not home_.

But seconds later his hopes were dashed as the heavy deadbolt slid back and the front door of the apartment opened.

Stiles turned, looking Chris in the eye. He didn’t look like his usual self – the shadow of whiskers that lined his chin were scruffy, his short hair was unkempt and his bright eyes faded, darkened by sleepless shadows and framed by worn creases.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come,” Stiles whispered, turning to walk back to the elevator.

“Stiles,” Chris called after him, his hoarse voice making the boy’s steps falter as he fell still. “Are you okay?”

Stiles didn’t turn to face him. He kept his eyes on the scuffed toes of his sneakers.

Would it be so bad to admit he wasn’t?

Maybe Chris would take pity on him and kill him to put him out of his misery. He had to be harvesting some kind of resentment towards Stiles, right?

After all, he’s the reason Allison is dead.

Stiles didn’t realise he was shaking his head until he caught sight of the glistening tear that shattered like glass over the toe of his shoe.

Chris sighed weakly.

“Come on in,” he whispered, voice void of gruffness and urgency.

Stiles’ shoulders dropped, he turned but didn’t look up at the man. Chris ushered him inside and he stepped past the threshold, feeling his heartbeat spike and his breath thin.

He listened as Chris shut the door behind him, rubbing at his eyes with the sleeve of his jacket.

“Want a drink?” Chris offered, walking down the narrow hallway and into the kitchen.

“No, thank you,” Stiles whispered, following the man’s solid steps.

Chris rummaged through the fridge, glasses and Tupperware containers clinking and clattering as he pulled out a beer and cracked it open on the benchtop. He lifted it to his lips and took a swig before setting down on the counter.

“So, what wrong, kiddo?” Chris asked softly.

Stiles lifted his eyes to Chris’s, hoping to see malicious intent, plotting, rage or judgment. But there was only sorrow and pity. _Why?_

It broke him. His composure shattered into a million pieces and tears seeped through the cracks, caressing his cheeks and dripping to the polished floorboards.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles cried. “She’s gone and it’s all my fault. I’m sorry.”

Chris stepped around the counter.

Warm hands steadied the boy as Chris pulled him into a comforting embrace of strong arms. He cradled the boy to his chest, gently rocking him. His tears seeped into Chris’s rough cotton shirt, leaving a damp patch above the breast pocket. Stiles was pretty sure he felt the warmth of tears strike his tussled hair as Chris pressed his cheek to the crown of Stiles’ head, but he didn’t care.

 

Stiles’ soft fingertips trailed across Derek’s warm skin, the gentle bud rolling over the curves of his muscles and dipping into the small crevices of joints and the seams of muscles. He carefully guided Derek about, moving his limbs into the desired positions for his poses before scurrying behind the camera and taking several photos from a couple of different angles before Derek’s muscles began to ache.

But there was something about his warm touch, about the way his eyes rolled over Derek that made the man year for him. There was something about how he seemed to see Derek as more than a thing, as a work of art and something more. He treated him like a person.

“This is the last one,” Stiles announced as he scurried back over to Derek’s side.

“How do you want me?”

“Uh.” Stiles hummed in thought, tilting his head as if to visualise something. “On your feet with your hands in the air, like you’re strung up by rope.”

“Kinky,” Derek teased.

“Turn your back to me,” Stiles instructed.

“Are you sure you’re not doing this for your own pleasure now?” Derek said with a small chuckle.

Stiles ignored him and stood still for a moment, looking at Derek as if looking at something that only he could see.

“Actually,” Stiles started, stepping forward and placing his gentle hands on Derek’s arms. “Arms down, but spread out, like you’re screaming at the heavens.”

Stiles gently guided Derek’s strong arms down to his side, gently angling the pals of Derek’s broad hands upward. His agile fingertips ran up Derek’s forearms, over his bicep and onto his shoulders, straightening his back. His hot breath rolled over Derek’s golden skin as he leant forward and whispered, “Perfect.”

Stiles’ soft purr made Derek’s crotch throb.

He tried to ignore his growing erection, but that became increasingly difficult as he realised that Stiles’ eyes were focused on his half-naked body, that everything around him smelt of their intertwined scents – Derek’s musky odour and primal sweat and the faintest trace of cigarettes and alcohol, and Stiles’ divine scent; a mix of sweet-smelling body washes, strawberry shampoo, the bitter scent of chalk and paints and his own primitive body odour.

“You alright?” Stiles’ voice made him jolt with surprise.

“Uh, yeah. I’m fine.”

“You seem tense,” Stiles muttered.

Derek held his breath. _Shit_. “I was thinking about my work tonight,” Derek lied.

“Oh?”

“Yeah, I might have to leave soon to get there on time.”

He didn’t want to leave, but he also didn’t want Stiles to see how hard he was.

“I’ll be quick then,” Stiles announced, racing back to his camera and taking a few photos.

Derek closed his eyes and listened to the quiet clicks, his heart beating faster and faster as he realised his time here was quickly running out.

“All done,” Stiles announced, setting the camera down on his small desk.

Derek hurried to grab his shirt, keeping his back to Stiles the whole time.

“Are you sure you don’t want any payment?” Stiles asked “It’s not an easy job.”

“I’m sure,” Derek confirmed, tugging his shirt on overhead. He collected his phone off of the nearby table. “I’ve got to be going. I’ll see you soon. Bye,” he called as he hurried out the front door.

“Bye,” Stiles called after him.


	4. Chapter 4

He tried to convince himself it was Stiles who lay sprawled out across the mattress beneath him. He tried to imagine that it was Stiles he could taste on his lips, encouraging him to sink deeper into the warmth of the kiss. He tried to imagine it was Stiles’ smooth freckled skin he could feel against his palm as he slid his hands across the protruding ridges of their ribs. He tried to imagine it was a flat chest he was groping, not the firm tissue of a woman’s breast. He tried to imagine Stiles letting out little yelps and moans as he gently toyed with her firm nipples. He tried to imagine Stiles’ slender body arching off the mattress as he slid his throbbing cock inside the warmth of his body.

He buried his face in Jennifer’s shoulder, laying kisses across the curve of her neck and gently sucking at the skin. He ignored the bitter sweet scent of perfumes, disregarding it for the memory of Stiles’ scent; chalk, strawberries, and sugar-filled drinks. He listened to her soft yelps and erotic moans, staring at the dark locks of her hair, trying to imagine them being slightly lighter and much shorter. They’d still be as soft, but maybe not long enough to thread them through his fingers.

He tugged at her hair, listening to her gasp and purr, spurring Derek on. His hips move faster and faster as he angled himself into the right spot, making Jennifer arch off he bed, moaning incomprehensibly.

Derek bit his lips, grunting as he desperately forced himself not to let that name fall past his lips.

He sat upright, pulling Jenifer into his lap and thrusting rapidly into her. She dragged her nails across his shoulders and he tried desperately to imagine that they were Stiles’ fingers, coloured with lingering traces of chalk pastels. His touch would be much softer and his nails – chewed to the quick as by habit – wouldn’t burrow so deep. But the burning pain excited him, making his erection throb as he tightened his grip on Jennifer’s hips and burrowed deeper inside of her.

She let out a cry of ecstasy, body arching against his as Derek’s rhythm sputtered and he burrowed himself inside of her, reaching his climax and coming.

They collapsed against the bed, breathless as they lay still, blood gushing through their veins.

When they had calmed and the air had returned to their lungs, Derek rolled away from her, sitting up on the edge of the mattress. He pulled the condom off of his throbbing dick and discarded it, cleaning himself up before collecting his clothes.

Behind him, the sheets rustled as Jennifer rolled to the other end of the bed and fiddled with fluttering fabric as she dressed herself. She collected her purse and counted out the money, leaving it on the small table by the door as she left without another word.

Derek hung his head. He was too proud to cry, but he felt like he needed to.

“Who am I kidding?” he whispered to himself, staring down at the awful crimson shag carpet beneath his bare feet. “He’d never love me. This is all I’ll ever be good for, a cheap fuck in a lazy motel.”

He sighed and rose to his feet, the cliché ‘lover red’ walls glaring at him as he numbly collected the money off of the dark oak table by the door. He shoved the bills in his pocket and collected his phone, unlocking the screen to realise he had two new messages; one from Peter and one from…

“Stiles?” he whispered, brow creased with confusion.

He quickly opened the message, ignore the flutter of his heart as he did.

 

Final works are done.

You can come by any time if you want.

Just want to say thank you for everything.

Hope to see you soon.

 

The message as followed by a ridiculous smiling emoji.

He couldn’t help but smile, but every last ounce of joy drained from him when he opened the text from his uncle.

 

When you’re done, you’ve got another customer.

9pm. Same room.

Have fun.

 

The message was followed by the same smiling emoji, but this time it seemed so much more cynical, conniving and untrustworthy.

Derek sighed and set his phone back atop the dresser, pulling the money out of his pocket and setting it aside in one of the draws. He looked over at the small clock by the bed.

8:48.

He poured himself a glass of water and tipped it back, feeling the cool liquid glide down his throat.

He quickly picked up his phone, opening his messages and glaring at the blinking blue line in the message box. He quickly tapped out a reply.

 

My pleasure.

If I get the night off, I’ll come to the opening.

Hope to see you soon.

Derek.

 

He sent the message and set his phone down on the dresser.

A light knock at the door caught his attention.

“Come in,” he called, turning away from the door to face the far wall as many of his customers preferred. The door creaked on its hinges, the latch clicking into place as feet shuffled across the shag carpet. Derek slowly turned to face them. “How would you like me?”


	5. Chapter 5

Derek clenched his hand, hesitant. He drew in a deep breath and bit his lip hard enough that it threatened to draw blood. He exhaled and swore silently at himself for being such a wimp.

He knocked at the door.

“Come in,” Stiles called, his voice strained with frustration.

Derek turned the doorknob and stepped into the apartment. His eyes flickered over to Stiles, who crouched over scattered pieces of paper, Post-It notes and his computer. Stiles raked his hand down his face, growling with frustration as he clutched his phone to his ear.

“You know what, Scott? Go fuck yourself,” he barked as he hung up and dropped the phone into the cluttered mess on his desk. He drew in a deep breath and turned his attention to Derek. “Shit,” he hissed under his breath. “Sorry you had to hear that.”

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah, well, no, Scott’s being an ass as always. He waits until the day before the exhibition and then starts some shit about how to place pieces in the gallery and what should or shouldn’t be on display, pricing, sales, etcetera. Every fucking time.” Stiles breathed deeply. “I’m sorry, I’m a terrible host. Would you like something to eat? Something to drink? If you’re looking for something to relieve stress I’ll let you choke my best friend.”

Derek smiled weakly. “I’m alright. I just came to apologise.”

“What for?”

“I’m working tonight so I won’t be able to make it to the opening. Sorry.”

“Don’t be. You didn’t have to anyway,” Stiles assured him, gently patting his arm.

The shrill chime of a ringtone interrupted them. Stiles glared at his phone.

“Sorry, I’ve got to take that.”

Derek smiled and stepped aside.

Stiles picked up his phone and answered it. “Scott, I swear to god, if you say one more thing I will come over there and castrate you with a rusty knife… oh, hi, Isaac. Sorry about that. Can you tell your boyfriend that the only ass he’s allowed to get on is yours?”

Derek tried to smother a soft laugh. The quiet snort caught Stiles’ attention, his chocolate brown eyes glancing up at the man.

Stiles smiled softly, but it dropped away when Isaac said something that displeased him.

“What?” he sapped. He inhaled a breath through gritted teeth. “Fine. Five minutes. And tell Scott he’s a dead man.”

He hung up the phone and shoved it in his pocket, scurrying around the small desk to collect a few papers.

“Sorry to run off on you but they need me down at the gallery. I won’t be long if you want to stay here and just make yourself comfortable. That being said, I have no idea how long I will be because Scott is a dick.” Stiles collected his grey hooded jacket pulling it on over the obviously well-loved Star Wars tee-shirt. He stopped before the door, spinning on the spot to face Derek. “Do you want to come? I mean you don’t have to, but I’d really like for you to see the exhibit and this way you don’t have to fight with the crowds.”

“That’d be great,” Derek whispered, a smile tilting his lips as he buried his hands in his pockets.

“Awesome, but if you hear the sounds of someone being strangled, don’t come to his rescue.”

 

Derek strolled through the rows of magnificent artworks. He stopped at each and every one of them, unable to take his eyes away. He took his time, admiring the photorealistic pastel paintings of still-lifes – the succulents and cacti that sat on his windowsill, the clustered table in his studio and the occasional coffee mug or vase of flowers. The panted scenes were stunning, so lifelike that he could small the pines in the park, hear the honking car horns and rumbling engines along the city streets and feel the warmth of the setting sun. He stepped around the hall until he notices the most prominent piece, set up on a wall all on its own.

It was him, depicted as a fallen angel in the first panel; hunched in the corner of the small canvas with scar tissue tearing at his shoulder blades, little nubs protruding from the bone. The second canvas had him turning towards the sky, followed by the third where wings began to regrow from the scars. The forth had them spread outright; the details of the feathers were immaculate, his body set against splotches of vibrant watercolour paints. The final image depicted him standing proud and balancing on the tips of his toes as he was bathed in glowing light, his wings outstretched and beautiful.

“That set’s my favourite.”

Derek jolted upright, spinning to face Stiles.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.”

“It’s gorgeous,” Derek whispered, awed.

“No, that’s just you.”

“What?”

“It wouldn’t have been possible without you. After all, that is how you seem to me,” Stiles confessed.

“Fallen angel, maybe, but an angel? That’s not me.”

“I think it is. But maybe you’re scared to spread your wings because you’re still scared and scarred.”

Derek looked at him, watching his beautiful brown eyes sparkle as he smiled up at Derek. He turned his stunning eyes back to the canvases.

“As much as the profits would help – the gallery and me – I really hope this one doesn’t sell,” Stiles whispered.

“You could always redo it,” Derek suggested.

“No, I can’t. I destroyed the reference photos as promised and it’s never as good the second time around.”

“Stiles,” Scott called from across the gallery floor.

“Not dead yet?” Derek whispered to Stiles.

“Nope, but he’s about to be,” Stiles hissed as he turned around and stormed over to his friend’s side.

The man with golden curls – Isaac – skipped over to Derek’s side. A bright smile lit his face as he spoke, “You must me the infamous Derek.”

“Apparently,” he growled, glaring at Stiles. He made sure Scott had his undivided attention before asking Isaac, “Do you handle the selling of the artworks?”

“Uh, yeah, Scott’s horrible with the finances,” Isaac chuckled.

“I won’t be able to make it tonight, but there’s a particular piece I’d like to buy if that’s okay. But you can’t say a word to Stiles.”

Isaac smiled. “Of course. Which piece do you have your eye on?”


	6. Chapter 6

“You know it’s not conventional to celebrate the release of an art exhibition by treating me to a night out at a gay strip club, right?” Stiles asked, spinning to glare at Scott.

His friend simply smiled. “Dude, you haven’t gotten laid in - - what? - - two years?”

“Three this April,” Stiles admitted. “And that was pity sex on my birthday. But I don’t need your help hooking up.”

“Okay, okay, if you don’t want me to buy you a night of hot sex with a prostitute then I won’t, but at least go and get a look at some of the strippers.”

Stiles glared at his friend suspiciously, cocking an eyebrow. “Does Isaac know you’re here?”

“Yes,” Scott replied bluntly.

“Are you lying?”

“Yes,” he admitted, but before Stiles had the time to roll his eyes and scoff at Scott he added, “But there is some truth to it. I told him we were going out for drinks, which is true because I am going to go buy us drinks.”

“Remember to use cash,” Stiles muttered. “He balances your accounts.”

“What would I do without you?” Scott called over his shoulder, weaving his way through the crowds of people and over to the bar.

Stiles rolled his eyes. He tried to ignore the bitter smell of opium and cigarettes. The small undergrown den was an old factory, filled with small leather booths, black lights and secured poles to the platforms for the dancers; who were oiled up and dressed in skimpy outfits, their firm muscles holding them upright as they span about on the poles.

Stiles caved in, even if he wasn’t here for sex, he could at least admire these men for their physique, talent and aesthetic beauty. At least that’s what he told himself as he made his way over to a nearby platform. He made his way to the front of the small crowd of cheering gay men, their lustful eyes fixated on the dancer, and as he turned his eyes to the stage he realised why. How could you not be captivated by those tight muscles and toned abs? How could you not yearn for that golden skin, laced with the slightest trace of his bitter primal sweat? How could you not fall in love with those glittering green eyes? How could you not lust for that physique, his voice and rugged sighs, his soft breath that twitched his plump pink lips?

Stiles’ stomach twisted in knots; from arousal or guilt he wasn’t quite sure, but he couldn’t take his eyes away from Derek. He watched as the man moved with grace, his muscles tensing and flexing.

But how could he not? How could he possibly look away from Derek Hale?

 

Derek ground back against the pole, his back arching as he straightened and then dropped to the floor, spreading his legs and earning a scream of excitement from the crowd. He ran his fingers through his short hair, licking his lips as his pale eyes glanced down his nose at the crowd.

He gasped, his blood running cold as he caught sight of the pale freckled face in the crowd.

What was he doing here?

He can’t be here. Not now.

He forced himself to keep going with his routine. He dropped to his hands, crawling across the speckled linoleum stage to the edge, hungry eyes focused on Stiles as if he were out to hunt the stunned boy. He licked at his lips, ravenous. He arched his back up and lifted his body up into a handstand, back-flipping don the strange and wrapping his arm around the pole. He spun around and slowly discovered that he was having fun, toying around and showing off, but only for Stiles.

He lowered himself to his feet and strutted offstage. Stepping behind the thick black velvet curtains he collapsed on a nearby bench, his knees trembling and his gut twisting and churning.

“Ah, Derek,” came the worst possible voice.

“Peter,” Derek snarled as the man swanned into the room, making his way swiftly over to Derek’s side.

“How’s my favourite nephew?”

“Only nephew,” Derek corrected.

“Well, yes, and whenever you’re done moping, your regular is upstairs waiting for you,” Peter announced, strutting away as quickly as he had come. He stalled, turning back to face Derek. His charming smile dropped, his blue eyes taking on a cynical sharpness. “Oh, and freeze on stage like you did just then, and I’ll beat you five ways to next Wednesday.”

Derek sighed, rising and dragging his feet to the stairwell. He crept upstairs, walking down the hallway, trying to ignore the burning stench of mould and the many indescribable, questionable stains.

He gently knocked at the door to the private room, turning the doorknob and stepping inside.

He turned his eyes to the gorgeous blonde who sat on the bed. The cascading waved of her long blonde hair trailed down her back as she unzipped her dress and shrugged it off her shoulders. He glanced over her shoulder at Derek, eyes caressing the curves of her body.

Kate Argent.

She was a beautiful woman, with bright blue eyes and a soft smile. But there was something about her that always seemed so cynical, manipulative.

“Hey, gorgeous,” she called, dropping her dress on the floor. He watched the pale blue fabric pool, the chiffon skirt rippling.

“Straight to it?” Derek asked.

Kate undid the latches of her bra. “Why not?”

“How would you like me?”

Kate tilted her head in thought. She hummed to herself and patted the soft velvet of the blanket. “On your back, for a start.”

Derek did as instructed, stretching out across the mattress.

Kate moved to straddle his waist, bending over him, she ran her tongue up through the streams of Derek’s abs. He shivered at the sensation, earning a chuckle from Kate.

She slid her palm down to his crotch.

“What’s got you so excited tonight?” she whispered, warm breath rolling across Derek’s muscles.

“It’s nothing,” Derek denied, rolling Kate onto her back and stripping off their remaining clothes and devouring her skin with kisses. He trailed his lips across her throat, gently nipping at her chin. He sat back, collecting a condom from the draw and tearing open the foil wrapper with his teeth.

He glanced down, a little shocked when he didn’t see Kate, but rather Stiles; his body laid out before him like a piece of art. His eyes rolled over the speckled skin, scattered moles charting constellations.

He couldn’t help himself, he rolled the condom over his length, gently running his hand up and down his cock before leaning over Kate and burying himself inside of her.

Kate arched off the bed, fingers clawing at his biceps as she moaned his name.

Derek growled in response, burring his face in the curve of his neck as he began to thrust into her, enticing savage grunts from him and animalistic euphoric moans from her.

He lost himself, his body moving by instinct while his mind filled with images of Stiles that only seem to clear when he found himself laying back against the mattress, spent and heaving in deep breaths as reality set in once again.

Kate sat up on the edge of the bed, fetching her bra. “I’ve never seen you that into it. What made today so different?”

“I’m just a little pent up,” Derek confessed; Kate wouldn’t judge.

“This wouldn’t be about a young man named Stiles Stilinski, would it?”

Derek froze.

“My niece was a good friend of his. Scott, the gallery owner, was her boyfriend. My brother dragged me to the exhibition opening tonight, and could you imagine my surprise when I saw you sprawled across his art works?”

“Are you going to chat all night or are you going to pay me?” Derek asked, rising from the bed to fetch a pair of jeans from the dresser pressed against the wall.

Kate reached for her purse, shifting through the thin paper bills and counting out his payment.

“So was I right?” she asked as he handed him the money.

Derek glared at her, folding the bills and shoving them in his pocket.

“Your silence speaks volumes. And your glare is hot as fuck.” Kate chuckled, sliding her dress back up over her slim figure.

“He was here tonight,” Derek whispered.

“So you played up for him?”

“No. I never told him what I do.”

“Oh,” Kate gasped. “Oh shit.”

“Yeah,” Derek sighed, running his hand through his hair.

“Well, shit, I’m sorry, Derek.”

“It’s okay,” Derek whispered.

“What are you going to do?” she asked, seemingly genuinely concerned.

“Honestly? I don’t know.”


	7. Chapter 7

Derek sat on the edge of his bed. He had been staring at the screen of his phone for days now, unable to reply to the text that glared back at him.

 

Hey, it’s me. Again.

I just want to talk. So please stop ignoring me.

 

He stared at Stiles’ name at the top of the screen. He sighed, biting into the hot flesh of his lip.

His thumb hovered over the screen, ready to type but never pressing any of the keys.

The text panel was interrupted with a new message.

“Peter,” Derek growled, reluctantly opening the message.

 

New client. Asked specifically for you.

Same room, 20 minutes.

 

Derek sighed, rising to his feet. He tugged the blanket straight and set his phone and wallet down in a dresser draw. He tugged his shirt off over his head, turning up the heating in the room so that he didn’t shiver against the cool winter breeze that rattled the metal beams of the old, refurbished warehouse.

He stayed facing the far wall as the heavy silence was disturbed by the soft knock at the door.

“Come in,” he called.

He listened as the rusting hinges creaked and the door shut again. A soft and somewhat comforting whiff of fruity scents and earthy tones filled his nostrils.

“How would you like me?” Derek asked.

“How about you face me for starters?”

His blood ran cold.

Stiles.

“I can’t,” Derek croaked.

“Derek, please,” Stiles whispered. “I don’t want to have sex with you, I just want to talk. Am I irritated that you didn’t reply to any of my texts or phone calls? Yes. Am I ashamed that I had to buy a session with you just to talk to you? A little. Am I mad at you? No, not in the slightest. I just want to know why you wouldn’t tell me.”

“Because no one wants something that’s broken,” Derek muttered.

“You’re not broken Derek,” Stiles whispered. “You’re hurt, scarred, but not broken.” Stiles sat down on the edge of the bed, hanging his head in his hands. “Why do you do this, Derek?”

Derek remained silent, feeling Stiles’ eyes burn into the back of his skull.

“If it’s about the money then I can pay you.”

“No,” Derek growled, turning to glare at Stiles. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

“Then at least try explaining it,” Stiles retorted.

“I do this because I don’t have a choice! I’m enslaved to my uncle. My pimp. My _owner_. I don’t do this for money or for pleasure, I do this because I have to.” Derek stormed over to the edge of the bed, slumping down beside Stiles. When he spoke again his voice was quiet, his breathing easy and composure holding strong. “I chose to be your model because I wanted to; not because I needed the money but because I needed an escape. And the more time I spent with you the more I believed that I might be more than some cheap fuck for people on the weekends. The way you looked at me made me feel like my body was good for more than just sex. You made me feel like a piece of art. That being said, I think you’d be Eros, not me.”

“What?”

“You said you’d paint me like a god. But I’d be better a mortal. Mortals, like me, are deeply flawed. Gods, like you, are perfect.”

“I don’t think so,” Stiles whispered. “You know as little about me as I know about you.”

Derek hung his head.

Stiles glanced over at him. “Derek,” he started slowly. “If you need money to pay off your Uncle I can pay you or give you a loan.”

“No, I don’t want to cheapen what we have - - whatever that is.”

“Are you still willing to model for me?” Stiles asked cautiously.

“I’d like nothing more.” Derek turned his bright eyes to Stiles. “For as long as you want me.”

Stiles smiled, burrowing his hand into his pocket and drawing out his wallet. He pulled it open and thumbed at the thin paper notes. Derek sat his hand atop Stiles’, stilling him.

“I’m not taking your money; not now, not ever.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the final chapter that I have completed.  
> I have other little bits written, but nothing that's coherent. I will post another 'chapter' that is literally just another couple hundred words of the scene where Stiles and Derek officially get together, because it's not fair that I've made you wait this long for nothing.  
> The story I had planned after this point was pretty much Peter beat Derek up and tossed him out on the streets, he goes to Stiles for help and Stiles takes him in, Stiles and Derek get together, Peter finds out about them and goes after Stiles but Derek and Chris stop him, Derek helps Stiles come to terms with the trauma and guilt of losing Allison in the car crash, and some fluff before a happy ending.   
> As it stands, I will not be writing any more of this. I love this story but I don't have the time or commitment to make it the story it should be, sorry.


	8. Chapter 8

Stiles was stirred by the chiming of his doorbell. He dragged his bare feet across the wooden floorboard, cursing under his breath as he rubbed at his eyes.

All fatigue washed away as his eyes widened at the sight of Derek’s swollen, bruised face.

“Oh my god,” he gasped, taking Derek’s hand and pulling him into the apartment. He guided him over to the kitchen and sat him down at the small table set in the corner of the room. He rushed the sink and grabbed tea towel, dampening it as he tugged open the freezer and tipped a couple of ice cubes into the towel. He rushed back to Derek’s side, gently pressing the towel against the man’s swollen eye socket. Derek flinched at the cold ice and Stiles apologised frantically, scared he had hurt him.

“What happened?” Stiles asked.

“My uncle decided to speak out about his discontent that I refused your payment yesterday,” Derek explained. “And don’t you _dare_ offer to pay me now.”

Derek looked up at Stiles, captivated by the sparkle of his eyes and the small parting of his soft pink lips. He was mesmerised by him.

“Can I be completely honest with you?”

“I’d prefer if you were,” Stiles replied softly.

“I really want to kiss you.”

Stiles seemed shocked, looking deep into Derek’s eyes as if he were trying to find a secret ulterior motive. He leant forward, tilting his head and bringing his lips to Derek’s.

 

**Author's Note:**

> celestialvoid-fanfiction.tumblr.com


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